by Sharyn Munro
I did apply for a teaching post, but it was several years before I was offered one. Then it was way out west where I’d be the only French teacher, and I’d never taught that, although I’d been trained to teach both French and English, my majors at university. The kids were settled in their city school, had made friends, and there was the impossible distance from their father—and the mountain. I said no. Farewell to any prospects of secure work and pay, of working hours that matched school times, of school holidays without the worry of who to mind the kids.
I moved into better firms, in various commercial fields, advising on and specifying fantastically expensive designer furniture, lighting, door hardware, bathrooms, fabrics—with increasingly top-of-the-range products. I took Susan with me into one of those companies, since she deserved better pay and respect than she’d had in the chauvinistic place where we’d met.
How come I could do such unlikely jobs? Well, I had a good eye for line, colour and composition; I was intelligent and practical, I picked up new things fast; being a working mother of two, I was a good organiser, so a good project manager; and I was honest, so clients trusted that my advice was not biased for a sale.
I learnt to read plans, and did a few partial courses to flesh out the knowledge I gained from reading—a year’s correspondence course from England in architectural ironmongery, in which I got a distinction; a term of fronting up to Tech on a Friday with electrical trade apprentices to learn about lighting sources; two terms of Tuesday nights at Tech to grasp the basics of mechanical engineering drawing.
A woman in the midst of such all-male groups was considered a joke, as was my presence on commercial building sites. I didn’t mind the workers whistling, but I did mind the bosses smirking when I entered the site office. They stopped when, for example, I drew a screwdriver from my handbag and got them out of an urgent deadline problem, with big penalties at stake, by opening up a mortice lock and changing its function and hand on the spot.
Meanwhile the kids and I were living in student-type rented dumps that I filled with other people’s reject furniture. As Rozelle and Balmain shot up the trendy scale, so did the rents. We’d soon needed three bedrooms, and moved many times in those thirteen years, ‘downsizing’ in a vain attempt to keep the rent to no more than half my wage. A grotty old house was better than a sterile flat with no yard, no earth, where I’d have really gone mad. I changed jobs to earn more.
The advantages of Balmain’s pubs and cafés, like the theatres of Sydney itself, were lost on me, as I could never afford to go out unless someone else was paying. Every dollar had to be kept for its budget allocation.
As a client dithered over gorgeous curtain materials that cost more a metre (wholesale) than my fortnight’s rent, or an elegant sliver of Italian leather, slung on chrome sticks, labelled a chair, and worth a year’s rent, he or she would often turn to me and ask, ‘So what do you have in your home?’
‘Oh, ’ I’d say, shrugging my shoulders nonchalantly, ‘a rather eclectic mix, actually.’
I saw inside many upmarket Sydney homes. I never wanted to live in any of them, harbour views notwithstanding. They were too impersonal and artificial, and way too big. It was out-of-control consumerism, as far from the simple life as could one get. I mean to say, five bathrooms, not counting the outside one by the pool, and even if only three of them had gold-plated taps and black-marble floors?
By my second job I’d moved up the scale enough for a company car to be part of the deal. I argued for a four-wheel-drive Subaru instead of a Commodore, so they could be sure I’d get back from the mountain on a Sunday night. The only problem was having to wash the bush weekend off it before taking it to work; I had much the same problem with my inner self.
I had several men friends—consecutively, not concurrently—and initially only going out every second weekend when the kids were with their father. They were mostly journalists, a profession which, at least in those days, carried the occupational hazard of drinking too much alcohol. Hanging out with them inevitably involved me doing the same, although I could never match their excesses. After all, they were in regular training. But it was no way for me to regain emotional stability.
When the kids began going less often to their father’s, and I began wishfully thinking of father figures and happy families, I twice made the mistake of thinking a relationship might become more permanent. The reality was disastrous and brief each time. Conflict with my kids was unacceptable; we were better off on our own.
As the kids grew, so did the expenses, but unfortunately not the financial help. There was never enough money to meet demands, from big ones like a school excursion to the snow, to middling and too-frequent necessities like a new pair of sneakers, to the terrible weekly stretch of $10 each for music lessons. Being constantly worried about money made me more of a ratty mother than I wanted to be, or than my kids needed.
To supplement my earnings, I tried waitressing in an Indian restaurant a few nights a week, until I realised that my son was not meeting his Year 10 assignment deadlines. He needed supervision. Instead I took up proofreading at home, for a small desktop publishing company.
Then my current day job company closed my branch. They’d imported exquisite Italian designer door furniture. This job had at least given me a brief flash of luxury, in a rushed trip to Port Douglas and the Reef, and my first and only helicopter ride, showing the Italian principals around, since we could communicate in French—sort of.
Janet, the manager of a nearby trade-only fabric showroom, took me on, knowing I needed an income quickly. It was several steps down in pay and position, but they were fabulous English and French fabrics—Warner, Liberty, Osgood & Little, Pierre Frey—and I loved handling them and learning about this whole new field from Janet, who was only a few years older than me. Like Sue, she had a mischievous sense of humour, and also became my friend.
But it couldn’t pay enough, so as the desktop company expanded, I took the offered full-time job. I’d already been organising sales literature for wherever I was, designing the brochures, writing the copy. Here I learnt how to use a Mac computer and do ‘typesetting’ and layout. But, having made the classic mistake of being involved with the boss, I lost the job when I no longer wanted the relationship to continue.
That was all very unpleasant, but after fifteen years the scars had faded, so when he came across my name on the Internet as a prize-winning writer, he made email contact. Now in Tasmania, a publisher, editor and reviewer, graphic designer and artist, and as articulate, erudite and witty as ever, Fred’s a valued friend and dependable e-correspondent—especially when I get desperate for ‘proper English’.
But back then, being jobless was a frightening prospect—no income, even for a few weeks, with rent to pay, nothing in the bank and two kids to support. I made quirky flyers and hand-delivered them to potential employers, although my lack of official qualifications, plus being in my forties, made my chances slim. Only one replied. Weavers, a design and production company, offered me temporary work, which led to a permanent job. Soon I began to do their copywriting as well as layout.
I still do some freelance work for Weavers Design Group, mostly turning corporate-speak into readable prose for newsletters, brochures or website copy, often for their credit union clients. So although I have no money, or loans, I am quite knowledgeable about finance!
Weavers were very supportive. In a way it’s as if I remained part of the company even after I’d left and moved back here for good. They used to call me ‘our woman on the mountain’, as one says ‘our man in New York’, although the connotations of gumleaves and gumboots were probably less impressive.
They had to tolerate a long and turbulent teething period in those pre-email communication days. We were using a program called Carbon Copy (I think) where my computer linked to theirs via a primitive modem. I’d try to get the modem to work on my dreadful phone line, waiting for that magic sound, the electronic gargle of a successful connection. Someon
e had to sit at a computer at their end to receive it, and stay there to respond, even if it was unbelievably slow. I’d be sitting here trying to get it through, never sure if the person down there had given up, or wandered off to make a coffee or take a phone call. To find out, I’d have to disconnect and ring them, as I only had one line. Then we’d have to start all over again. Hair-tearingly not ideal.
I think that was when I first discovered the release to be derived from screaming Charlie Brown one-liners—‘A-a-a-a-rgh!’—from the verandah.
Unfortunately it was before I discovered Hunter techno-genius and problem solver Greg Norris, of Singleton Comptech Support. He has saved me from nervous breakdowns and loss of income umpteen times over the years, often talking me through to a solution over the phone. I may be a techno-dill, but I simply could not function here without his unflappable support. The curlier the problem, the better he likes it, which is just as well, since I toss him quite a few.
But at least I was living and working here, even if conditions weren’t ideal. My partner was perfecting his guitars in his separate workshop, which had a pot belly stove, necessary to keep the humidity down for the timbers and for gluing as much as to keep him warm. Meanwhile I’d be shivering at my desk at the other end of the cabin from the combustion stove. Working on the computer, I’d be wearing fingerless gloves, beanie, thick socks and boots, tights, leggings, long woollen skirt, singlet, skivvy, woollen jumper, vest, cardigan and shawl, with a rug over my knees. Dead elegant—and cold. I cursed again the uninsulated roof.
After a few years he bought and installed a wood heater up my end of the house. Each winter I am grateful to him, as I am for the hot shower, even if that’s still alfresco! Earning a living from here was the overriding critical issue for us both and we only just managed—and sometimes we didn’t.
Having once subscribed to The Owner Builder magazine, I often looked through my back copies for ideas or information. The last page, ‘The Back Porch’, was for readers to volunteer their musings, so I sent in what I thought was a humorous piece on our unfinished building projects. I included a short note which mentioned I was a writer.
The then editor, Russell Andrews, liked it; he rang and asked if I’d write for them. That was about eight years ago, and it’s been the major source of my small income since, and the most pleasant. Owner builders are a subculture of terrifically energetic, persevering and inspiring people who combine creativity with practicality. I find and follow up leads on interesting owner-built homes, preferably sustainable, ideally handmade. I interview the owner builders, take photos and write the articles, one or two per bi-monthly issue.
Yet it’s always hard to make the initial phone call, which after all is cold calling, even though most people welcome the idea of sharing the story of their efforts. Then it takes bravado to leave my hermitage and front up, apparently full of confidence, to people I’ve never actually met. Sometimes I feel out of sync, wonder if I’m raving, having been on my own so long. Yet with many of my subjects I have much in common—environmentally, artistically and philosophically.
And I’ve made friends amongst them, mostly only seen when I return to their regions for another story. Robert Bignell, who took the photo on the back flap, is one who lives in the Hunter. We were sitting outside his Old Brush Studio, watching the waterbirds on his lagoon, having a coffee and sorting out what was wrong with the world, when he said, ‘Hang on a tick’, and nipped inside. I avoid cameras, but he’s a professional, so he snapped me suddenly and sneakily, which is why I have a rather odd look on my face. His excuse was that the light was too good to pass up.
Close friends are rare in my experience—and precious. One of the reasons I’d been determined to return to the bush and live the life I felt was right for me was that I’d been forced to accept the fragility of the future. The only two female friends I’d made in Sydney had died.
Susan, younger than I was, stumbled and fell for no apparent reason one day at the office; she was found to have a brain tumour. I watched her fight against dying, sharing it when she’d let me. It seemed particularly unfair that it was her clever brain being attacked. She was justly angry—and brave.
Janet, so shy of internal examinations that she never had pap smears, was finally diagnosed with advanced cervical cancer. We’d been swapping wind remedies, which didn’t help because her problem was secondary bowel cancer. I shared her battle to the end too, more closely, at home, hospital, hospice. Janet was scared—and brave.
Then just before I moved back to the bush I learnt that my old friend Tony had liver cancer. I’d known Tony for 30 years; my ex-husband’s best friend, once. He’d let the friendship with Tony drop, but I hadn’t. An ABC journalist, Tony had made a happy second marriage, with Jo. When I first went to Sydney to look for work they put me up—and put up with my teary marital post-mortems. We’d had less contact since they moved to Tasmania.
He and I grew closer through letters over the two years of life that he fought for and won. He read my first attempts at short stories and I read his new poems. I went down to Sydney whenever he flew over for treatment, and the last time, knowingly to say goodbye. I managed to bring him up to the mountain twice. He knew it from the early days. ‘I always thought this was one of the great escapes, ’ he said.
How Tony dealt with his cancer was typical: he involved himself totally with his specialist’s radical theories and treatments; enrolled in French at uni (so he could read Proust in the original, he said); started writing poetry again—he had true talent but life had somehow sidetracked him; and took surfing lessons. From my desk I can see my favourite photo of him. On a beach, he’s dripping wet, grinning through his greying beard, wearing a purple and black wetsuit. Hey, Tony.
His encouragement kick-started my formal writing. His dying made me even more determined not to be similarly sidetracked by daily life.
CHAPTER 6
SHELTER—SOME HOW, SOMETIME
A few years ago, short of an Owner Builder story, I wrote about my own place, ‘Confessions of a Bad Muddie’. Looking at archival photos of me making mudbricks, in shorts and Indian shirt, or flared jeans and cheesecloth top, 1979 seemed long, long ago. My floppy straw work hat was actually a relic of my civil ceremony wedding, where I’d worn a cream trouser suit that hadn’t even been bought especially for the occasion.
The lack of frills and fancies and romantic notions in my wedding was a fair indicator of the relationship. I didn’t know any better at nineteen, having been brainwashed into thinking that romance was an invention of Woman’s Day and Mills & Boon, and quite beneath any thinking person. I’ve learnt a little since then about romance.
After visiting over 100 home-made houses, I’ve learnt a lot more about building. I still can’t explain why my husband and I did such an erratic job. Maybe because it was mud, and not ‘proper’ building materials, so it felt more like play?
We came here with G.F Middleton’s classic Build Your House of Earth as our bible. It was so confidence-inspiring that we lurched into building our 8 metre x 5 metre one-room mudbrick cabin (meant to be Stage 1) with great enthusiasm untempered by any other knowledge or experience. It was also untempered by taking his advice to practise on something small first.
Yet nearly 30 years later the cabin is still standing, giving me shelter plus offering a perfect example of what not to do when building in mudbrick. It will outlast me, and maybe those who inherit it. And as every one of the 1475 bricks was pressed into the moulds by my hands, it’s very personal—another bond with this place.
The old bloke who sold us the land said he’d bulldoze a track in and level the house site as part of the deal. We got him to push the topsoil layer forward, and that became my interim vegie garden. A foot depth of the clayey subsoil was pushed sideways into a pile that gave enough material for our bricks, as well as a play ‘mountain’ for the kids. They were desolate whenever we had to dig into one of their elaborately constructed labryinths of roads, tunnels and quarri
es, when they had to dismantle their ‘sheds’ made of sticks and bark, and relocate their Matchbox toy vehicles.
Building seemed so simple. I cut the tussock grass for straw to add to the mix, and carried buckets of water up from the spring, where the water trickled out of a clay slip in the hillside into a small hole that we’d edged with rocks. Clear and drinkable, and always a wonder.
Over a pit we’d dug, we’d balance a chickenwire and timber screen. My husband would shovel the dirt onto that and I’d rub it through the ‘sieve’ with a piece of wood, which gradually wore to a smooth ellipse.
We’d lift off the netting frame and my husband would hop in as the mixer. He’d be barefoot, as gumboots would refuse to part company with the mud base after a very short while. I’d start adding the water and straw.
When it was the right consistency, he’d fill the barrow and wheel it over to the rows of hessian-covered platforms that we’d set up for brickmaking. We couldn’t do it on the ground because the ground wasn’t flat enough. In fact it was sloping enough for a full barrow or two to get away from him en route.
I’d kneel beside the oiled timber double mould. With bare hands I’d spread and poke and pat the mix to fill the corners as he plopped the shovelfuls in. I’d stand to level the top, then ease the mould off, when, ever-magically, the bricks would emerge, just sitting there, slightly quivering, glistening dark grey-brown. With a stiff brush, in the tin bathtub of water, I’d quickly clean the mud off the mould and we’d do it again, and again. I can still feel the icy water on the wrinkled-prune skin of my fingers, and the gritty mud under my nails.
